Unimpressive Bones and Impressive Drawings
by whitchry9
Summary: The scaphoid is a rather unimpressive bone in the wrist. Sherlock Holmes is a rather impressive man. It may seem like these things are unconnected. But in fact, the rather unimpressive bone had an amusingly enormous effect on the impressive man. Wherein Sherlock break a bone, fights about going to the hospital, and catches a criminal. Oh and Mycroft shows up. Three parts.
1. Chapter 1

The scaphoid is a rather unimpressive bone in the wrist.

Sherlock Holmes is a rather impressive man.

It may seem like these things are unconnected.

But in fact, the rather unimpressive bone had an amusingly enormous effect on the impressive man.

* * *

"I'm fine John," Sherlock told him for the third time in as many hours. John still didn't believe him.

"If it was a simple sprain, the pain should have been mostly gone within a day. It's not."

"Yes it is," Sherlock insisted.

"Nope," John retorted. "You haven't played your violin for two and a half days! That's not normal."

"I was bored of it," Sherlock informed him.

John rolled his eyes. "Not bloody likely."

"Really quite likely John," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes and drawing his hands up to his chin.

John scrutinized him and saw the tiniest bit of a grimace before Sherlock moved his hands back down to his sides.

"There! Right there!" John exclaimed. "That hurt!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course that hurt. It's sprained John. You do have a medical degree, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Which is why I'm saying this isn't normal. You need to go to the hospital."

They glared at each other, two equally stubborn men who were equally sure they were both right. Or at least, didn't want to admit they were wrong.

They were momentarily distracted by the doorbell, but Mrs Hudson called up to them, "I'll get it!"

They continued glaring as Mrs Hudson chattered to the visitor, then as they climbed up the stairs together, and even as Mrs Hudson popped her head into the room.

"Boys! You've got a visitor," she sang.

"Mycroft," Sherlock stated, still staring at John, who could see Sherlock's brother out of his peripheral vision.

"I don't even," John began, before giving up and sighing heavily, flopping into his chair.

"You hurried over," Sherlock noted. "Why don't you just move into the basement flat. Much more convenient for you."

"Not so, dear brother. The damp."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course."

Mycroft turned to John. "I hear that you have concerns regarding my brother's well being. You suspect it's a broken wrist?"

John nodded, not even bothering to question how Mycroft knew that.

"But he won't go for x-rays," he stated loudly, glaring at Sherlock as he said it.

"Well. That can be... arranged," Mycroft stated flatly, the hints of a smirk on his face as he glanced at the tip of his umbrella, ever present.

Sherlock glared at him with a fierceness that John had only seen him use on his brother.

"I'd like to see you try," he spat.

Mycroft smirked, and suddenly, John was rather afraid.

* * *

John had been forced to leave the room for a minute, so he retreated downstairs with Mrs Hudson, who was still looking rather ruffled over the whole thing.

"I don't know how he does it," she twittered, bustling about the kitchen, making tea despite John's protests that it was entirely unnecessary. "That ridiculous brother of his, with the umbrella he always carries. Even in the sun!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up before returning to scrounging for mugs. "And those suits," she paused, looking at John thoughtfully. "Does he have anyone in his life? A girlfriend... boyfriend... anyone?"

John could only shrug.

Mrs Hudson went back to tea making.

John had just been handed his cup when Sherlock and Mycroft both appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

"Come along John," Mycroft announced.

Shocked, John sat his cup down and followed Mycroft and Sherlock into the awaiting car.

* * *

"Sherlock will cooperate fully for the x-rays," Mycroft informed him, once they were seated and moving.

His assistant, not Anthea, was sitting in the car as well, texting away.

John shook his head, bewildered. "I don't know how you do it."

"Thank god," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"What was that Sherlock?" Mycroft inquired innocently.

"Nothing," Sherlock sang.

It was quiet for the rest of the trip, save for the clicking of keys on not Anthea's phone.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft must have used his powers as a minor government official because Sherlock was swept away to x-ray immediately without having to wait in the A&E queue.

There was only a short stop to get Sherlock's wrist splinted, which involved much protest from Sherlock and looks from Mycroft.

John was mostly thankful that Sherlock didn't make the x-ray tech cry, as he had done before.

Mycroft had left by the time they were done, muttering something about a national crisis, and Sherlock and John were left alone in a curtained off little cubicle.

* * *

The x-ray tech came in a short while later and handed an envelope to John.

"I've been told you're his doctor," he said.

"Yes. Yes, thank you," John replied, slightly shocked.

The man left and John unstuck himself from the chair and headed over to the lightbox, flipping it on.

"A bit archaic now," he commented. "But it works."

He stuck the films into the box and scrutinized them.

Sherlock was rather irked that John stood directly in front of them, preventing him from seeing them.  
_Probably on purpose._

* * *

John giggled.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "What is it."

"Look at it Sherlock," John informed him, pointing his finger at the x-ray.

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but obeyed.

"Look at what?" he asked flatly.

"This really obvious fracture."

Sherlock squinted. "Indeed," he observed.

"Who was right?" John asked, smirking.

"Could it be you?" Sherlock replied, examining his fingers.

"Yup."

"How fascinating..."

* * *

Sherlock grumbled throughout the entire time John was speaking with the orthopaedic specialist.

Finally, John turned to him, and told him "Sherlock, if you do not shut up, you will get no say in cast colour. I think you'd look good in a neon lime green."

Sherlock glared at him, but stopped.

* * *

"Will surgery be necessary?" John asked the ortho doctor.

"No," he replied. "Non displaced and we caught it in time, so it should heal well enough if we cast it."

John nodded.

"Don't I get any say in this?" Sherlock called from the bed, bored of picking at the splint. (Over bored really, but he could finally say something interesting.)

John rolled his eyes.

"You are not having unnecessary surgery," he informed Sherlock bluntly, walking over to the bed. "And that's what it is. Unnecessary."

"I don't want a cast," he whined.

John folded his arms across his chest.

_Oh dear. That means he's serious._

"Even if you did have surgery, you'd still need a cast afterwards. But you don't need the surgery. There are too many risks."

Sherlock glared at him, then turned to glare at the other doctor, who was standing behind John, nodding.

"Whatever," Sherlock replied flippantly, waving the hand that wasn't strapped into the splint.

John grinned slightly.

"Good choice. And, you can choose the colour."

* * *

Sherlock was silent as the doctor removed the splint and positioned his arm, although John knew it had to hurt at least a bit. The doctor moved on to pulled what looked like a shiny sock, but less fluffy, up Sherlock's arm. John was thankful that the doctor felt no need to make small chat, because Sherlock would surely rip him apart.

"Hey!" Sherlock protested as the doctor pulled the material up far past his elbow. "What are you doing?"

"It rolls down," John informed him, nodding at the man to continue. "So just sit tight."

"How else am I supposed to sit? _Loose?_" he spat.

John fixed a glare on him and Sherlock looked away, sighing dramatically.

* * *

The man smoothed the material out before wrapping Sherlock's arm with what looked like fluff on a roll.

"Padding," he explained. "To protect the bony parts of the arm from the fibreglass. Makes it more comfortable."

Sherlock acted as if he didn't hear. And it was entirely possible that he hadn't. Mind palace.

Sherlock snapped back to reality when the man rolled padding around Sherlock's elbow and above it.

"What the hell are you doing?" he snapped.

The poor man looked at him, shocked.

"Padding," he stammered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obvious. But what is it doing all the way up there?"

"Padding. Obvious," John interjected, taking pity on the poor doctor who looked like he was just out of med school.

"But-" Sherlock began, only to be cut off by John, who was not finished.

"And if you do not sit there and shut up and let him finish, I will call your brother."

Sherlock glowered at him. "You wouldn't," he hissed.

"Oh I most definitely would," John replied, crossing his arms.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered. "But first you have to explain the rational behind it being so erroneously large."

He sat there glaring between the two of them, daring the doctor to touch him before he explained.

"Well... the scaphoid-"

"No, not you," Sherlock snapped. "John!"

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not an orthopaedic specialist, Sherlock. I'm not sure!"

"Best guess."

John sighed. "Well..." he began, pondering. "The scaphoid has a relatively poor blood supply. And your break is much nearer the wrist than the thumb, which is where the blood supply is worse." He glanced to the other doctor, who nodded his approval, and John continued, more confidently. "The scaphoid is also unique in that it's the only bone that spans the two rows, so if it's broken, the two rows are essentially pulling the fragments apart."

John stopped and looked at Sherlock triumphantly.

"Fine."

John gaped. "I gave you that lovely explanation and that's all you have to say? Fine?"

Sherlock shrugged minutely as the doctor resumed rolling out padding on his arm. "I just wanted an explanation. I wanted to make sure this wasn't just a 'Sherlock' thing."

John rolled his eyes. "Right."

"What colour?" the doctor asked, having finished up with the padding.

"Blue," Sherlock declared.

"Which shade?" The doctor held out a sample rack. There were three different shades of blue: a light blue, a dark navy blue, and a sort of sky blue colour but a darker shade. John bet on the navy to match Sherlock's scarf.

"That one," Sherlock told him, pointing with his unbroken arm to the sky blue colour. The doctor nodded.

"Interesting choice," John noted as the doctor left to get the packages of fibreglass.

"If you say that to blue, I can't imagine what you'd say if I chose pink," Sherlock smirked.

John wisely chose not to say anything, only watching as Sherlock's entire arm was encased in blueness.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sherlock!" John called, sprinting down the street after his bloody flatmate, chasing after a criminal with a monster of a cast on his arm, mildly unbalanced and out of sorts and yet entirely determined to catch him.

They hadn't even been on a case. But they'd been out shopping (John had managed to convince Sherlock to accompany him shopping, on the condition that he could pick out some ice cream) except Sherlock had spotted someone and dashed after him, leaving John standing there with a basket which he promptly dropped, leaving their ice cream there to melt. Shopping would have to wait.

It was only a week after their visit to the hospital and his subsequent cast, and it had been a week of _hell. _Sherlock had been absolutely miserable, unable to play the violin or work on any of his more delicate experiments. To top that all off, there hadn't been any interesting cases to distract him. Or perhaps Lestrade hadn't offered any to them, maybe because of someone's meddling brother.

John spotted a flash of someone, hopefully Sherlock, and not the man he was chasing. Because all John wanted to end this day was a face off with an unknown man who'd done an unknown crime, if he'd even done anything.

* * *

But the blur stopped, and John, although hesitant, jogged over to see what it was.

Sherlock was standing over the man, collapsed in a pile, out of breath from running, clutching his casted arm to his chest like a bird to a broken wing.

"What did you do?"John gasped, not sure if he was more worried about Sherlock, or the unconscious man on the ground.

"Hit him," Sherlock replied, looking entirely too smug with himself.

It was dawning on John, but he was hoping he could ignore what his mind was telling him in favour of his heart. "Hit him... with what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated with John's ignorance. "My arm. The one encased in a brick?"

John groaned. He knew that was what happened but had just really _really _hoped it wasn't true.

"Come on. We'll go back to the flat and I'll check you over. We probably don't need to return to the hospital." He paused, a though occurring to him. "Why were you chasing him down anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged, struggling with the handcuffs as he tried to cuff the man to the fence he'd collapsed by. John took pity and did it for him.

"Lestrade," he announced, speaking into his phone. "Left you a present. I think you'll be rather interested. Trace my phone."

Ignoring John's question, Sherlock began walking away.

* * *

"Well, it doesn't look any worse for the wear," John admitted after checking it over. "But you do have to go for x-rays at the end of the week, so we can get it checked then."

"Hmm," Sherlock huffed.

"Oh stop," John scolded. "You're luck you didn't crack his head open and get blood all over your pretty drawings."

Sherlock peered down to admire them.

"They are impressive, aren't they?"

"Rather," John confirmed. Which was mostly true. True for Sherlock anyway. John probably would have preferred something other than chemical formulas and decomposing body parts sketched on his cast, but to each their own.

Sherlock was content with it, and that was really all that mattered.

Especially considering he'd be living with it for at least eight more weeks.

And they were going to be long, long weeks.


End file.
